Twelve, nine, six, three......bleh.
Dec. 19th, 2010 10:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yukieWatch me pretend I'm a discount Mark Danielewski LOL TYPOGRAPHY.
TITLE: Life and death and death
FANDOM: Warcraft/WoW
PEOPLE: A dead(?) Blood Elf, and the creepy voice in his head.
WARNINGS: I'm going to be an ass with typography. XD Also, creepy. Inspired by Kyl's much spookier offering.
***
one eye is open (maybe) and it's still dark.
dark, blue.
he's not blind at any rate, though his right eye hurts.
(the memory of the blade sends a burning streak of pain down his face again and he's curious as to why his eyes aren't watering.)
it's dim and blue here. cold. maybe.
(he'd probably freeze if everything were all right, but something's wrong.)
he thinks it's cold. there's condensation on the stone.
(he's lying on a rock. or he thinks it's a rock. whatever it is, it's like the casket things in those human burial vaults, isn't it?)
so it's cold if moisture's beading on the stone - maybe-a-stone. or at least the maybe-stone is cold.
(he should be less worried about the stupid sarcophagus - for that's what it is, really, if it's actually stone, which it might not be...so a maybe-sarcophagus - and more worried about where he is, why he's not cold why he's not in pain even though he should be.)
his fingernails look blue.
(that's bad.)
he thinks he remembers falling shortly after the injury to his eye half blinded him.
(he thinks he fell, and he thinks he died.)
falling with a sword right through his sternum - he has a scar there.
(he should be dead. he shouldn't be thinking.)
he pokes at the scar; it doesn't hurt now.
(dead people don't feel pain, do they?)
this - really isn't - normal, is it? he should be afraid. his heart should be pounding, he should be gulping air and diving for cover.
(but he hasn't got a heartbeat.)
this isn't right.
(this is wrong, all wrong, profoundly wrong, he should be dead. he died, he felt himself die, he knows he's dead and shouldn't know he's dead because the dead don't think of such things and don't have bodies they can feel and they certainly don't sit up and hop off the maybe-stone table they inexplicably awoke on and wander aimlessly around the room.)
that's quite so.
He stops mid-stride.
the dead have no fear; therefore, you have no fear.
"I'm actually dead, then."
(is that weird reverberation in his voice itself or just this enormous damned room flinging his echo back at him in twisted broken shape?)
you are; you fell, and what came before your fall matters little, if anything at all.
"If I'm dead, why are we talking?" He curls and uncurls his toes, wiggles his fingers. No rigor mortis?
i am your benefactor. death is not the end of existence; surely you've heard such spoken before?
"...Yes, but that was before. Does that part of before matter?"
This is - almost funny.
No. it IS funny, and he starts to laugh.
The voice - cool and dark and blue as everything else here, heavy as sodden velvet, a comforting weight pinning down the frantically-beating wings of what might have been rising panic - thinks so too.
It does likewise, and a wicked shiver runs up and down his back. He does gasp, even though he doesn't think he needs to.
your wit is not dulled; that pleases me very much.
He's not sure why that makes him want to purr, why approval and pleasure from the blue voice should make him so absurdly happy.
(it's far too late to feel apprehension; his heart is caught.)
do you recall your name?
"No."
do you remember anything at all of before?
He closes his eyes.
"Not my name." A pause. "No - that's gone. everything's - empty. I can't remember...I can't remember anything at all."
(everything was stolen somehow, and he should fear, but he can't fear any more.)
"...But I dreamed. I think."
the dead can yet dream; it's only the conceit of the living that denies we possess this gift.
(was that his life or a dream of a life before that never really was?)
what did you dream, my knight?
"Your knight?" The shiver is back, and the pride, and the happiness, but so is the sense that he should tread wisely. "...Blades, and - a shield, I think, but nothing else is really clear. It's all a sort of mess of pictures in my mind..."
A long silence follows.
Has he disappointed this voice that's everything to him now?
your life before may as well be a passing fancy your mind conjured in the space between sleeping and waking. you may dream of strange things, but you need have no fear. you need have no guilt. no apprehension, no shame. these things are for the living.
...Poor bastards, he thinks, and feels a spark of contempt ignite somewhere inside him. Poor idiots, to be bound by things like that. How can you call that really BEING?
(if life isn't truly being, then what kind of existence is this?)
your dreams and your mind are nothing to fear.
"I'm not afraid. Not of anything. Not of any ONE."
not even of me, my knight?
For the first time now he's alarmed - no, he's afraid. The sense of the blue voice in his mind is suddenly too heavy and too cold. His head swims and he staggers, colliding with the sarcophagus (maybe-sarcophagus - it feels halfway like stone and half like metal) and then clinging to it for support.
it doesn't do to forget all your fear, my knight. it doesn't do to be so foolish as that. some things should still be feared.
He's trying to get the air to talk and can't breathe and the voice is still bearing down on him. Cold, heavy. His vision's going dark. He tries to move and can't - that velvet tone has an iron grip. Until the voice gives him leave, he won't move another inch in his life. Motion and sight, freedom from pain, the privilege of existence, all these are things that the blue voice has every right to bestow on him and take away at its leisure.
The pressure hurts now, he thinks, but even though it hurts, even though he's in pain - he doesn't want it to STOP now. Pain means he exists. Pain isn't unpleasant.
No.
The opposite is true.
It does stop, and he slides off the stone again and sprawls facedown on the floor, making an unhappy noise that one could easily describe as a petulant whimper.
have you understood?
"I fear you," he says, and rolls onto his back. Then he draws his knees up and curls his toes and smiles. He starts to laugh as euphoria rushes in to fill the void left by the absence of pain. "And I - I think I really like that.
is that so?
He laughs harder, just reveling in the feeling of BEING.
"Yes."
Nothing has any right to feel this good. Nothing has any right to feel so good as the weight of that voice on his mind and his soul.
"Yes, yes, yes--"
please me, and you'll know that feeling again. as much as you could ever want. i know i don't need to remind someone as quick-witted as you what will happen if you make me unhappy, of course...
That unspoken threat sends another chill crawling up his spine.
"No, you don't," he rasps, and isn't sure why the threat of that kind of pain (as doubtless thats what the voice means) is making him even more ecstatic.
then rise, my knight, and walk. go to your fellows. all that you need to know now, they will tell you. all that you ever could ever need or desire, you will have here.
"You'll give that to me."
The voice's reply - the voice of his lord - is purred more than spoken.
always.
He swallows.
"My life before is gone. it's a dream. it's nothing now. But - I have no name now. I know that you'll know me, but - how will I know myself?"
The caress on his mind makes him dizzy with want.
your name from before is dead; come to me. i will give you your new self, and your new name.
He wants nothing more, now, than to follow the beckoning in his mind.
So he does.
(and the lid of the coffin slams shut on his old life for good.)
***
haaahahahahaa why is LK!Arthas so fun to write.
The elf in question here is Ishandarr; I don't know WTF his Death Knight name is yet (they seem to sometimes get renamed), durhurhur XD I also need to DRAW HIM! And get to level 55 so I can play him.
Yep. XD
TITLE: Life and death and death
FANDOM: Warcraft/WoW
PEOPLE: A dead(?) Blood Elf, and the creepy voice in his head.
WARNINGS: I'm going to be an ass with typography. XD Also, creepy. Inspired by Kyl's much spookier offering.
***
one eye is open (maybe) and it's still dark.
dark, blue.
he's not blind at any rate, though his right eye hurts.
(the memory of the blade sends a burning streak of pain down his face again and he's curious as to why his eyes aren't watering.)
it's dim and blue here. cold. maybe.
(he'd probably freeze if everything were all right, but something's wrong.)
he thinks it's cold. there's condensation on the stone.
(he's lying on a rock. or he thinks it's a rock. whatever it is, it's like the casket things in those human burial vaults, isn't it?)
so it's cold if moisture's beading on the stone - maybe-a-stone. or at least the maybe-stone is cold.
(he should be less worried about the stupid sarcophagus - for that's what it is, really, if it's actually stone, which it might not be...so a maybe-sarcophagus - and more worried about where he is, why he's not cold why he's not in pain even though he should be.)
his fingernails look blue.
(that's bad.)
he thinks he remembers falling shortly after the injury to his eye half blinded him.
(he thinks he fell, and he thinks he died.)
falling with a sword right through his sternum - he has a scar there.
(he should be dead. he shouldn't be thinking.)
he pokes at the scar; it doesn't hurt now.
(dead people don't feel pain, do they?)
this - really isn't - normal, is it? he should be afraid. his heart should be pounding, he should be gulping air and diving for cover.
(but he hasn't got a heartbeat.)
this isn't right.
(this is wrong, all wrong, profoundly wrong, he should be dead. he died, he felt himself die, he knows he's dead and shouldn't know he's dead because the dead don't think of such things and don't have bodies they can feel and they certainly don't sit up and hop off the maybe-stone table they inexplicably awoke on and wander aimlessly around the room.)
He stops mid-stride.
"I'm actually dead, then."
(is that weird reverberation in his voice itself or just this enormous damned room flinging his echo back at him in twisted broken shape?)
"If I'm dead, why are we talking?" He curls and uncurls his toes, wiggles his fingers. No rigor mortis?
"...Yes, but that was before. Does that part of before matter?"
This is - almost funny.
No. it IS funny, and he starts to laugh.
The voice - cool and dark and blue as everything else here, heavy as sodden velvet, a comforting weight pinning down the frantically-beating wings of what might have been rising panic - thinks so too.
It does likewise, and a wicked shiver runs up and down his back. He does gasp, even though he doesn't think he needs to.
He's not sure why that makes him want to purr, why approval and pleasure from the blue voice should make him so absurdly happy.
(it's far too late to feel apprehension; his heart is caught.)
"No."
He closes his eyes.
"Not my name." A pause. "No - that's gone. everything's - empty. I can't remember...I can't remember anything at all."
(everything was stolen somehow, and he should fear, but he can't fear any more.)
"...But I dreamed. I think."
(was that his life or a dream of a life before that never really was?)
"Your knight?" The shiver is back, and the pride, and the happiness, but so is the sense that he should tread wisely. "...Blades, and - a shield, I think, but nothing else is really clear. It's all a sort of mess of pictures in my mind..."
A long silence follows.
Has he disappointed this voice that's everything to him now?
...Poor bastards, he thinks, and feels a spark of contempt ignite somewhere inside him. Poor idiots, to be bound by things like that. How can you call that really BEING?
(if life isn't truly being, then what kind of existence is this?)
"I'm not afraid. Not of anything. Not of any ONE."
For the first time now he's alarmed - no, he's afraid. The sense of the blue voice in his mind is suddenly too heavy and too cold. His head swims and he staggers, colliding with the sarcophagus (maybe-sarcophagus - it feels halfway like stone and half like metal) and then clinging to it for support.
He's trying to get the air to talk and can't breathe and the voice is still bearing down on him. Cold, heavy. His vision's going dark. He tries to move and can't - that velvet tone has an iron grip. Until the voice gives him leave, he won't move another inch in his life. Motion and sight, freedom from pain, the privilege of existence, all these are things that the blue voice has every right to bestow on him and take away at its leisure.
The pressure hurts now, he thinks, but even though it hurts, even though he's in pain - he doesn't want it to STOP now. Pain means he exists. Pain isn't unpleasant.
No.
The opposite is true.
It does stop, and he slides off the stone again and sprawls facedown on the floor, making an unhappy noise that one could easily describe as a petulant whimper.
"I fear you," he says, and rolls onto his back. Then he draws his knees up and curls his toes and smiles. He starts to laugh as euphoria rushes in to fill the void left by the absence of pain. "And I - I think I really like that.
He laughs harder, just reveling in the feeling of BEING.
"Yes."
Nothing has any right to feel this good. Nothing has any right to feel so good as the weight of that voice on his mind and his soul.
"Yes, yes, yes--"
That unspoken threat sends another chill crawling up his spine.
"No, you don't," he rasps, and isn't sure why the threat of that kind of pain (as doubtless thats what the voice means) is making him even more ecstatic.
"You'll give that to me."
The voice's reply - the voice of his lord - is purred more than spoken.
He swallows.
"My life before is gone. it's a dream. it's nothing now. But - I have no name now. I know that you'll know me, but - how will I know myself?"
The caress on his mind makes him dizzy with want.
He wants nothing more, now, than to follow the beckoning in his mind.
So he does.
(and the lid of the coffin slams shut on his old life for good.)
***
haaahahahahaa why is LK!Arthas so fun to write.
The elf in question here is Ishandarr; I don't know WTF his Death Knight name is yet (they seem to sometimes get renamed), durhurhur XD I also need to DRAW HIM! And get to level 55 so I can play him.
Yep. XD
no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 06:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 02:56 pm (UTC)And it's funny because he isn't super damn talkative at all unless he knows someone well XD;;;
no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 09:37 pm (UTC)This is the sort of thing I think you're amazing at writing you convey a wonderful sense of atmosphere and the light horror elements are laced well with your humor and wit. I loved it.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 01:41 am (UTC)lololololol i just realized Ishan has the same scars as Trevor Belmont.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 02:39 am (UTC):D